


The Boy with the Shattered Heart

by seaweedredandbrown



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (mentioned/hinted at), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attack, Past Child Abuse, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaweedredandbrown/pseuds/seaweedredandbrown
Summary: He'd been standing in the rain, not remembering why he was out in the first place; then one thing had lead to another and he was now an apprentice baker. [ Summary will be updated as the story unfolds. ]





	

He remembered standing in the rain. It had been… healing, soothing, soft. But very rainy at the same time. Very wet. And very cold.

He remembered standing in the rain, at the corner of some street. He couldn’t recall why he had been out so late at night, especially in that kind of weather. But he had not been too far from the church, so he must had been on his way home. He had thought that he should hurry, because Ma’ always worried so much when he was out too long.  
Then he had remembered that Ma’, Mo’ and Cha’ had all perished in the gas incident that had destroyed the church. That was why he had been standing alone in the rain: because he had nowhere else to go. He was too old to go back to the orphanage, too young to properly fend for himself, and without a friend in the world.

His steps had led him back to the church all the same. (It was not so bleak in his memory, was it? Maybe grief had changed the way he saw things.)  
Hunger and thirst had crept their way in as he curled up in the ruins of his former home. He had spent quite the terrible night, barely sleeping, trying to recall happy memories to warm himself from the inside - a flicker of Chastity’s smile, the sound of Mother’s voice; but nothing had come to him. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Morning had come and he had gotten up to grey light shining over a thin coat of frost. He was still hungry, thirsty, and cold. He had also started to feel sick, but if they hadn’t been able to afford a doctor before he had no idea how he would get one to see him now.  
Ma had taught him that hard work could get him anywhere, so he resolved to go and look for a job. He knew no trade, but factories were always hiring, right? (He did not have have it in him to go and beg in the streets. He knew all too well what happened to the boys who did).  
He had sniffed himself into composure, dusted the dirt off his vest - more out of habit than anything, really - taken a deep breath and bravely walked out of the church.

That had been when he had met the Goldstein sisters. They were looking for something, it had seemed. (Later, he’d learn they were looking for _him_.)  
Nobody else had been paying any attention to the blond woman in her pretty dress and her brown-haired sister in her smart pantsuit, no matter how much peeking around they had done. Neither had he, too worried by his current situation. Would a factory really hire him? Would they pay him by the day, so that he’d be able to afford at least some bread in the evening?

He had been too lost in his concern to see the two women looking up as he passed them by, motioning to each other until the blond sister had stepped up right in front of him.  
"Hey, young man," she had said, "you looking for a job? A bakery’s gonna open on Orchard Street. They’ll be hiring. Sounds rather nice, doesn’t it?"  
Yes, Credence had nodded. He had never considered working in a shop, but it did sound rather nice.

One thing had led to another and he had met Mr Kowalski that very day.

If the Goldstein sisters were care and warmth made flesh, Mr Kowalski was quite the amazing man himself. He had hired him without so much as a second glance. He had not cared about his lack of credentials, training, or references. (He had not even asked for them!). He had not commented on the wear and tear of his clothes, on the muddy patches at the seam of his trousers or on the nervous way he had clenched his cap through the whole of their interview. Come to think of it, he had not commented on anything at all.

He had just looked at him and gone, “What’s your name, boy?”.  
And Credence had said, “Credence, sir. Credence Barebone.”  
Then Mr Kowalski had asked, “And what’s your opinion on paczki, Credence?”  
Credence had been forced to admit that he did not have any, sir, because he did not know what a paczki was, sir.  
At this point, he had been worried that he had killed all his chances, but Miss Goldstein had giggled and Mr Kowalski had given him a tap on the shoulder, saying, “Well, pal, it’s high time we correct that.”

Credence had fallen in love with paczki soon after that.  
He had fallen in love with a lot of things, in fact: the bright light that poured through the shop window as he wiped it off every morning; the lush display of pastries; the heavy scent of baked bread, sugar and spices; the rustle of customers coming and going; the soft jingle of the doorbell.

Credence loved the way Mr Kowalski would always be the first at work, no matter how early Credence would get up, and how he would always start the day with a smile and a pot of coffee. (Credence was not too sure if he loved coffee.)

He loved the apron and the new clothes Miss Goldstein had gotten for him. She had handed them to him early on the morning of his first day. “I’m in a hurry for work, honey, but let me know if everything fits, okay?”, she had said, before disappearing. (It did. Credence had no idea how to thank her. That she told him he didn’t need to only made him want to repay her even more.)

And he loved the little room at the back where Mr Kowalski let him sleep. It was tiny and low; barely enough for a bed and a sink, but it was right next to the big ovens and thus always pleasantly warm. There was a hook on the door for his clothes and a bookshelf above the bed. It was _both_ leaning and wonky, but it was there. Credence used it to store the books he bought with his apprentice’s allowance and that weird little pendant he did not remember ever being given, the one with the triangle and the circle inside. It must have been a gift from Ma’.

He did not remember her. No matter how much he tried, he could not recall a single thing about her. He figured that it was grief, mourning, sadness that caused this sudden memory loss. And perhaps it was better, easier that way, so he did his best not to dwell on it too much.  
The nightmares received the same treatment. He did his best not to think about them, but he could barely sleep. If his days were quiet and peaceful, in his dreams he ran away from belts and grabby hands, into puffs of dark smoke that choked him awake. Credence had no idea where those could have come from. He had not dared to tell anyone about them.  
It was like the scars, too. There were so many scars on his back, his shoulders, his thighs. He did not remember ever getting them. They were too old to come from the gas incident and nobody had ever beaten him, had they? He would have remembered.

In the end, it was easier to push these thoughts to the back of his mind and focus on the task at hand. Business was picking up at the bakery - business was _always_ picking up.  
Mr Kowalski never stopped coming up with new recipes or new eccentric designs for his pastries and people came running from all over the city to buy them. This meant that Credence did a lot of running himself; walking back and forth from the counter to the oven, carrying around heavy trays of doughnuts and cupcakes, the buttery smell of croissants filling his nostrils.

And he loved it. He loved to be busy, to work with his hands; he loved the physical sensation of dough under his palms - kneading, stirring, layering, icing - the sheer exhaustion that threw him into slumber each night. The more tired he was, the less the nightmares could wake him.

Soon enough, Mr Kowalski hired other assistants to man the ovens and help the customers. Credence, who had been there the longest, did his best not to look as shy as he was and to help them settle in. They were all good boys and girls who listened to him and called him ‘sir’- although he was not much older than them. But he enjoyed teaching them what he was barely done learning himself. He was happy to realise that Mr Kowalski was relying more and more on him, especially when it came to the other apprentices.  
And among those newcomers, Henry was the one Credence liked best.

Henry was Irish, with dark brown hair and clearer eyes. He was almost as tall as Credence, which was quite rare, and he looked very smart in his white apron and his baker’s cap. Sometimes, when they would bring up trays or sugar sacks from storage together, their fingers would brush. That would make Credence feel all warm inside. It was a nice warmth, but tainted with shame and regret.

He did not know where those came from. He had all those emotions in him and he did not know where any of them came from. Sometimes he would suddenly feel angry, sometimes he would feel sad. He would try to keep them at bay, the anxiety, the anger, the sadness, but to no avail. They would creep on him at the most unexpected moments: he would bump shoulders with someone and recoil in a disgust he could not explain, or he would make the smallest of mistakes and start shaking and crying as if he had set the place on fire. This was silly and a bit embarrassing, really. Mr Kowalski would always try to comfort him as best he could, giving him failed pastries to eat, telling him jokes or reminiscing from his time in Europe.  
Then one or the other Miss Goldstein would arrive, as if warned by some invisible call of his queer mood. They would talk to him, pat his hand and feed him hot cocoa until the queerness of said mood had melted in sugar and milk.  
Sometimes, they would invite anyone who looked like they were having a bad day as well. The blond sister always knew if someone was feeling a bit under the weather. She truly was an exceptional woman: no wonder Mr Kowalski liked her so much. Credence always felt bad for his master when he would complain that she spent more time with his apprentices than with him, even though he knew he was joking. The man just did not have enough room in his love-filled heart for jealousy.

Such was life at the bakery: early to rise and early to bed; Mr Kowalski and his orange paczki; Henry’s clear eyes and his cheap novels; lunch breaks in the backstreet, feeding pigeons and cracking the occasional smiles to the other apprentices’ animated discussion.

Sometimes funny things would happen, too.

Once, a customer who was particularly rude to one of the girls was shut mid-complaint right as Credence had finally worked up the courage to intervene. The man coughed and wheezed his way out of the store, suddenly unable to speak, as if someone had sewn his mouth shut.

On another occasion, Henry and Credence forgot about the loaves they were supposed to watch. They had been too distracted by their conversation, but when they scrambled to their feet, alarmed by the scent of burning and the long wisps of smoke escaping from the oven door, they found them perfectly cooked and not burnt at all. It had given them quite a good scare, but Henry’s laughter of relief had absolutely been worth it, or so Credence had thought.

There were also the recurring incidents of the overflowing cash machine. Every time Credence would man the counter (and he did not do it often, what with all the ladies and gentlemen always trying to chat with him), he would run low on change. And every time - or almost every time - he would go and ask Mr Kowalski to get some more from the bank, he would come back to the money drawers full to the brim.  
This never happened to anyone else, although some customers did come back saying that, although they did remember getting change on their way out, they could not find it in their pockets when they got home.

Yes, life was easy, life was fun. Credence liked it that way. He did not doubt that soon the nightmares would fade, that soon his heart would not feel so heavy in his chest, and that such peaceful days would go on for years and years to come.  
Except that they did not, obviously.

It was all Mr Scamander’s fault.  
Or rather it was Credence’s fault - when was it not? - but he could not help but feel that Mr Scamander had also had his part to play.

Now, Credence did not remember ever meeting Mr Scamander. Yet when he arrived, on the day before Midsummer, Credence knew him. He just did. He looked at the blue coat, the messy hair, and the suitcase and thought, “here comes Mr Scamander,” although he could not recall ever hearing his name.  
Mr Kowalski introduced him as his “very good friend from England” and they embraced in that awkward way people who were not really used to embraces did. (Credence, who had no experience on the matter of embraces _at all_ , silently scolded himself for entertaining such petty thoughts.)

Mr Scamander barely looked at him and Credence only nodded, focusing on the cake he was icing. (If he had glanced up a second later, he would have seen how Mr Scamander was observing him, now that he wasn’t looking.)

Mr Kowalski, Mr Scamander and the Goldstein sisters locked themselves in the little office at the back of the shop where Mr Kowalski did his booking. (To tell the truth, Credence did most of it these days. His master was a great baker but terrible with numbers.)

They stayed in there for quite a long while, talking and talking and talking. Credence took care of the shop with Henry’s help, but the Misters and Misses were never done talking. It lasted so long that Credence started to think, maybe they’d gone thirsty? Maybe they would like a snack?

It was not like he was curious. He would not have had it in him to eavesdrop, no, not really. That would have been very wrong, but… But there had been a tension in his chest since Mr Scamander had stepped through the door and Credence could not help himself. (That was not exactly true. Mr Scamander might be dashing, and he might have that air of mystery about him, but it was not _that_ sort of tension closing in on Credence’s heart. He was not a naive debutante in one of Henry’s stupid novels, thank you very much.)  
No, he was not being curious, he was… considerate, yes, that was what he told himself as he carried a tray of pastries and coffee to the office. If he tiptoed on the last steps, well, he was just mindful not to trip - and if he overheard what they were saying, well, he could not help it, could he?

“… unknown side-effects of the Swooping Evils’ venom.” That was Mr Scamander’s voice.  
“… his mind might have forgotten, but his body remembers. I can tell.” That was the blond Miss Goldstein.  
Nobody talked for a little while, then the other Miss Goldstein said, in a low, tired voice:  
“We knew this might not work and we cannot hide him in here forever. I’m sorry, Jacob, but the boy will have to go.”

By then, Credence had had his hand on the handle and thus no more opportunity for accidental listening. Not that any of this had concerned him in any way, no matter what a voice at the back of his head was trying to say. He did not know what a Swooping Evil was - some sort of foreign candy? - and he had not forgotten anything that his body would remember on its own. How would that even work?

Still, this all puzzled him greatly. The worried glances and forced smiles that were shot his way inside the office did nothing to reassure him. He spent the remainder of the day trying not to think about it and failing. He could not help but wish that Mr Scamander had never entered the bakery; he did not know why, but that man meant trouble, he was certain of it.

Or maybe it had to do with the heat. It was warm, these days, warm and humid, as all summers in the city were. Credence hated it. He was truly miserable: he could endure the cold but there was something about the overwhelming warmth that he could just not bear. His days were long and his nights restless, even after bringing his bed all the way down to the cellar. 

Credence did not understand. He only knew two temperatures: freezing and suffocating. He had once heard that other people sometimes experienced a state of _comfort_.  
He wondered what it felt like and if he would ever know. In the meanwhile, the only solution he had found to forget the sweat dripping down his back and the thirst that parched his throat was to work and work and work some more.

Working was good. Working was what he was meant to do. Working kept his hands busy and his head as clear as it could be. And he liked it. So there he was. Everything was fine.  
Except that it was not fine, was it? What with the scars, the pendant, the butterflies in his stomach, the crying fits? Nothing was fine, but what could he do? He could not even recall happy memories to soothe him - working was all he had left.  
Thus he worked even harder than usual that day, staying until the shop had closed and everyone else had gone home. Everyone else except the Misters and Misses, who were still in the office, and Henry, who had insisted on staying. He swept the floor while Credence did the day’s booking on the counter. On any other day, this would have made him quite happy - he loved when they got to be just the two of them - but there was a buzzing in his ears and a knot in his stomach. Credence was not sure he would ever be able to enjoy anything ever again; the world seemed darker by the minute, even in the summer light of the early evening.

The booking was done, the floor was dustless and Henry suggested tidying up the storage room for the new batch of sugar sacks supposed to arrive on the morrow. Credence nodded and followed him without a second thought.  
He was not thinking when, piling one sack atop another, he ended up cornered between Henry and the wall.  
He was not thinking either when Henry cupped his cheek in his hand and said, “Credence, you’re… You’re my friend, right?”  
He knew he was not thinking, because if he had, he would have come up with something much better than “Y-yes, Henry, yes, I’m your friend. Y-yes,” as he stepped back under the unexpected, improper, absolutely incredible softness of someone else’s skin on his.  
But then, had he had time to think and answer anything else, maybe Henry would have not leaned forward and put his lips against Credence. And that would have been a shame, really, it would have been such a pity: in the realm of unexpected, improper and absolutely incredible softness, this completely blew the whole “hand against cheek” thing out of the water.

And it lasted, this moment of grace and sin, out of space and out of time.

And Credence was feeling warm, and he was feeling too warm.  
And this was not what he wanted, and yet this was exactly what he wanted, what he had always wanted; the fulfilment of a longing of which he had ignored the existence for so long and that he could not deny any longer.  
And he wished for this moment to last forever, and he wished for the great fires of hell to open under his feet and engulf him.

_Oh Lord, deliver me with Your fire…_

“What… I’m sorry,” Henry started, sensing his hesitation, “I thought you were…?”  
“No, I am, I am, it’s just… it’s just… Fire?”  
Yes, fire it was. Bright orange flames, licking at his fingertips, quickly spreading from sack to sack, heavy wisps of black smoke filling the room.

Things happened very quickly after that.

Henry shouted something. He took Credence’s hand and pulled him towards the exit.  
They ran into Mr Kowalski, Mr Scamander and the Goldstein sisters. They were all holding little wooden sticks - except Mr Kowalski, who was carrying a bucket of water. Credence had no time to notice this: the brown-haired Miss Goldstein grabbed Henry and pushed him outside while her sister got a hold of Credence and led him to the office.  
“He’ll be fine, and yes honey, I know, but later, okay?” she said, answering questions Credence was not even fully conscious he had.

Mr Scamander and Mr Kowalski did whatever they did to the storage room, which stopped smoking (but would smell like burnt sugar for weeks). Credence did not know that; Credence knew that Miss Goldstein sat him on a chair, handed him a cup of cocoa she quite literally grabbed out of nowhere and left him alone with the promise of coming back in a minute.

This was the longest minute of Credence’s life.

He sat there, unable to bring himself to drink the cocoa, trying to process what had just happened. That Henry had kissed him - well, he’d rather absolutely not think about the fact that Henry had _kissed_ him. The sugar sack catching fire beneath his palm was not exactly something he could make sense of either, so he tried really hard not to think at all.

It worked just as well as one might have expected.

His breath quickened and grew shallow. The walls seemed to close in on him, the flicker of the gas lamp overwhelmed by the lengthening shadows. He squeezed his eyes shut.  
If he ignored it, it would go away.  
If he ignored it, it would go away.  
If he ignored it…

His fingers were trembling, no matter how hard he clenched the cup. His knuckles were whitening; maybe they were hurting. He did not know.  
He did not know anything; anytime he’d try to look back, to remember anything, before that morning standing the rain, he would peer into the darkness of his mind - and the darkness would look back.

“Credence?”

A voice pierced through the darkness; the shadows receded and only panic remained. Credence tried to swallow, to open his eyes, to relax his fingers around the cup - but his throat was dry, his eyes were tight shut, and his hands were not answering his commands. He could not feel his body anymore and yet he was nothing but his body: the hurried breaths, the red and black veil before his eyes, the cold sweat on his back.

“Credence, can you hear my voice?”

Credence was trembling too much to nod. He could not breathe, a thousand needles were pricking at his skin, he was burning and freezing, his soul was clawing its way out of his body, but he thought, among the madness and the pain, he thought that yes, he could hear that voice.

“That’s great, Credence, you’re doing great. Can you focus on my voice?”

Tears were running down his cheeks. He was sobbing, he realised. There was something in him, something deep, dark and evil; there was something stirring in him, roaring for him to let it break free.

“Focus on my voice, please. You’re doing great, okay? Okay. Try and breathe. Try and breathe, okay? Focus on breathing. That’s all you need to do. Just breathe.”

Credence could not breathe, no matter how much he was asked to. Whose voice was it? This was not Mr Kowalski’s voice. He could hear Mr Kowalski in a hushed conversation with Miss Goldstein, something about the war, what war, the one in Europe, the one everyone had fought in?  
There was a war going on under his skull right now.  
So maybe Credence had fought in a war, too, a war of… a war of…  
He couldn’t breathe.  
The world was black and red and _painful_.  


He could not breathe.

The darkness was singing to him. It would be so much easier to let go…  
He could not breathe.

Snippets of prayers he did not remember learning, flickers of memories that weren’t his.  
A belt buckle glimmering in the candlelight.  


He could not breathe.

This was not working.  
The darkness was calling.  
He could not breathe and he could never breathe ever again.  
He was dying, he was, he was-

“Credence.”

Rough, cool hands wrapped around his.

“Credence, you’re here.”

The smell of dirt, sweat and musk.

“You’re here and you’re safe.”

A voice above the uproar of the raging seas.

“Just breathe with me. You can breathe, Credence. Breathe in…”

How was he supposed to, how could he, because he could not, he could try, but he could not do it, he could never do anything, wasn’t it why-  
Wasn’t it why-  
Wasn’t it why _what_?

“… Breathe out. Breathe in…”

He could not breathe, but this was Mr Scamander’s voice, was it not?

“… Breathe out. You’re doing great. Keep it up. Breathe in…”

Yes, this was Mr Scamander’s voice, and these were Mr Scamander’s hands too.  
And he was breathing, was he not?  
It was shallow and hurried and not enough, but he was breathing.  
That was a start.  
Now, if only he could try…

“Yes, you’re getting there. You’re doing good, Credence, very good. Just keep breathing, okay?”

Credence opened his eyes to a world of pain and Mr Scamander’s concerned face. It was a weird kind of face, he thought, not the sharp-angled, determined features he was used to seeing around him.  
Not that he paid that much attention to other men’s faces, but still.

’Henry’, the darkness whispered, ‘Henry’s face is sharp and determined’.  
Credence focused on his breathing.

“Breathe in…”

Credence nodded.  
Breathe in, breathe out.  
He was sniffling and swallowing back the rest of his tears, but he could do this.  
Breathe in, breathe out.

“Breathe out…”

Mr Scamander’s hands were still on his.  
They were fresh, so cool on his burning skin, and they were all chapped and scarred and rough. Those were the hands of a man who worked a lot with them.  
What had he said he was doing, again?  
Credence could not remember.

That did not matter. He was breathing, at last, slower and steadier by the second. Air filled his lungs, delicious air heavy with the smell of chocolate and cinnamon. The trembling ceased. Suddenly he was back to being a soul in a body, sitting on that chair in the office at the back of the bakery.  
The cup was heavy in his hands and his eyes were burning from all the tears he had cried. Mr Scamander let go of his hands and stepped back; behind him, Credence could see Mr Kowalski and the Goldstein sisters, watching him intently from the other side of the room.

He opened his mouth and tried to speak; but he was still breathing heavily and did not even know how to begin.  
Mr Scamander stepped in again and gently took the cup out of his hands, putting it on the table nearby.

“How are you feeling, Credence?”

He didn’t look so fidgety a minute ago, Credence thought. And Mr Kowalski had just let out a long sigh and mumbled something about getting a glass or two, as if they had barely escaped some sort of terrible catastrophe. Credence didn’t understand. (He would, much later. How he would!)

“I- I am…” His voice trailed off. What was he? “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me, sir.”  
Yes, that was a start.  
He had never felt so awful.  
He had known the ‘can’t breathe’ thing before, but never so strongly, and usually Mr Kowalski would tell him jokes or bring him some fresh food and it would go away, but this-  
Credence had thought he was about to die. He really had.

But he was still alive. And he was back in the room, and the shadows did not look so big anymore, and all he could do was smooth the creases on his trousers, over and over again, not daring to look up, trying really hard not to bite his lips too much.

“It’s alright, honey-”  
“Don’t worry about it, kid-”  
“You did your best, and-”

Now they were all around him, patting his back, taking his hand, caressing his hair. And he leaned into their touches, and he drank in their smiles and their words of reassurance.  
From the corner of his eyes, he saw that Mr Scamander had once again stepped back. He was fiddling with the rim of his waistcoat, lips ever so softly moving, as if he was in some very important conversation with the lapel of his coat.

This man was the key, was he not? Whatever weirdness had happened that day, this man had something to do with it. Credence just knew it. 

Of course, he could not just go and ask - 

“What happened, sir?”

\- except he had just gone and done it. _Right_.  
And now everyone was looking at him. 

He gulped and tried to explain himself. He was still feeling empty, drained, like an empty bottle washed up to the shore. He wished for nothing but rest and being left to his own devices. But words came easier to him in such state, although ‘easier’ did not mean ‘easy’ in any way. 

“What happened b-back there, in the storage room? I didn’t mean to, I swear, I’m so sorry, but it-it just, Henry was there, and he, and we, and suddenly there were flames, and I’m so sorry, and I-”  
“Magic,” Mr Scamander said quietly.  
“M-magic, sir? I beg your pardon?”  
“Magic,” Mr Scamander repeated. “You have magic in you and… under the pressure of a rather emotional moment… it manifested itself.”

No.  
There was no such thing as _magic_. 

“Magic, sir,” Credence repeated, as if he had never heard the word. “Magic isn’t real, sir.”  
“Magic is as real as you and me, Credence,” Mr Scamander answered. There was a sadness, a fatigue in his voice, and yet he was smiling. Credence didn’t understand. That was all right. There were a lot of things he didn’t understand, after all, and he had more pressing matters to busy his brain with than his master’s queer English friend. 

“Maybe it’ll be easier if I show you, honey,” the blond Miss Goldstein said, bringing out her stick and giving it a twist of her wrist. Credence gasped as sparks of blue and green sprang from the tip of the wand, shaping themselves into two small birds that came fluttering around him. He reached out a tentative finger, but the birds faded away in a puff of glitter as soon as he touched them.

Very well. Magic _was_ real, then. 

He turned his eyes to the other Miss Goldstein, who nodded with a friendly smile, and to Mr Kowalski, who shook his head with strength.  
“No, no, don’t look at me, boy. I’m just the normal bloke here. Can’t do any of this stuff.”  
“Which still makes you unique and exceptional,” the blond Miss Goldstein said softly.

They started bickering in that hushed tone of intimacy and affection, but Credence now had all of his attention on Mr Scamander, who was leaning against the wall, looking weary and lost in thought.

“What about you, sir?”  
“What about me?”  
“C-can you do magic too?”  
“Yes, Credence,” Mr Scamander smiled, as if brought back to the real world, “and so can you. With a little training, you’ll soon be able to do a lot of great things.”

Well, one thing was certain: Credence was absolutely not sure about that. Magic, unruly, untrained magic would explain the incidents at the bakery, the angry customers, the saved croissants, the overflowing register; but magic, _him_? Credence Barebone, the boy who couldn’t do anything?  
“Oh, honey,” Miss Goldstein said, pulling him into a hug, “you’re so much stronger and more powerful than you imagine.”  
“She can read minds,” Mr Kowalski explained, “you’ll get used to it.”

‘Really?’ Credence thought.  
“Yes,” Miss Goldstein answered, “really.”

Well, that explained a lot. Good thing that he would never have any impure- ah, why was he thinking about these sorts of things now, of all times? A blush washed over his cheeks and he jerked out of her embrace, very much aware that she could see in his head.

“So-sorry,” he blurted, suddenly finding a renewed interest in the invisible creases of his trousers.  
“It’s okay, honey, you-”

“Credence.” The softness in Mr Scamander’s voice hid an unwavering firmness. “You have magic and it’s a wonderful thing. There is a… There is whole world out there. There are so many of us, so many wonders, so many beasts, things you cannot even imagine. You could, if you’d like, although you don’t really have a choice, but you could come with me. And I could show you, I could… teach you a little, if you’d like. At least bring you to someone who can.”

“I don’t… have a choice?”

This was starting to be a little too much to take in, all those things at once. Henry’s kiss - don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about, _she can read your mind_ \- the fire in the storage room, magic, and now he had to leave? With that man? 

“If you don’t learn to control it, your magic will keep on bursting out,” the brown-haired Miss Goldstein said, “and-”  
“Her name is Tina, you know,” her sister cut in, “and I’m Queenie. It’s cute how you keep on calling us both Miss Goldstein in your head, though.”

Credence’s cheeks were never going to return to their normal colour. They would keep on burning, forever and ever and ever. 

“- and you’ll put us all in danger,” Tina finished, seemingly used to her sister’s interruptions. “Neither Queenie nor I can teach you, but Newt knows someone who can. It’d really be best if you go with him, Credence.”

“His name is Albus Dumbledore,” Mr Scamander said. “He helped me, too. I am certain that he will want to meet you.”

Credence nodded. He was used to doing as he was told and he did not want to be a bother to the people who had been so kind to him. His gaze tentatively wandered back to Mr Scamander. He had absolutely no desire to leave the bakery and especially not to follow that man he had such a deep, instinctive mistrust of; but the flames rising from the sugar sacks were still burning in his memory. He could not afford to put Mr Kowalski or anyone else in danger, could he?  
Anything else mattered little. 

“Are you sure I have magic, sir? Miss?”

The four of them exchanged a glance.  
“We’re absolutely certain,” Mr Scamander said with a half-smile.

“And it’s the best for everyone if I go, isn’t it?”  
Credence’s voice sounded tiny even to his own ears. He did _not_ want to go. He had everything he ever wished for. But on the other hand... 

“It’s the best for everyone and that includes you as well, yes.”

Credence nodded again. He could not fully believe the situation unfolding around him, but then, he could never fully believe or understand anything. And maybe, just maybe, if there was a silver ounce of a chance of shedding light on the darkness of his past - on the scars, the nightmares, the pendant, the lack of memories - he found himself quite willing to take that opportunity, all things considered. 

It was settled, then.  
“I will come with you, Mr Scamander, sir. If you let me. I never wish to hurt anyone, ever.”

Mr Scamander reached out his hand. Credence drew a deep breath and shook it, all trembling and unable to meet his gaze that he was. Mr Scamander’s hand was still cool and rough, full of blisters and scars. It was the hand of a hard-working man. 

Hard work. If all else failed, Credence always had hard work, had he not? Of course, he was scared, he was confused - screw that: he was lost and terrified; thrown into a world eerily similar to his own, yet absolutely different. Magic. He had magic. That he had to learn to control lest he hurt people. And that was the scariest thought soaring under his skull, this idea that he might hurt anyone. 

But he had hard work - and that would get him anywhere. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading. This is my very first fic for FBAWTFT, I'm very excited to share it with you! This is also my first multi-chapter fic, so please bear with me as I stumble along.  
> And it was in part inspired by this adorable [fanart](http://ismiracle.tumblr.com/post/153461841788/gigglejuiced-has-slain-me-with-the-idea-of-an) by [@ismiracle](http://ismiracle.tumblr.com/)! Go and check it out, folks! 
> 
> I'd like to acknowledge everyone who encouraged on this little idea of mine, and especially [@johnnyfuckingappleseed](http://johnnyfuckingappleseed.tumblr.com/), [@tanouska](http://tanouska.tumblr.com/) and [@theladyofpurpletown](http://theladyofpurpletown.tumblr.com/) for their help with English grammar and spelling and general hand-holding. 
> 
> Feel free to give me your opinion in the comments! Constructive criticism would be really appreciated.  
>  **Edit** \- I forgot to tell you! Silly me. I'm organizing a [Fantastic Beasts Secret Santa](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/FantasticBeastsSecretSanta) here on AO3! Please consider signing up for this gift exchange, it's going to be fun :D


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